Emergency Exits and the Distance Below
by SolarRose29
Summary: Given Steve's worrying behavior lately, Natasha feels she has no choice but to bench him. (mild Endgame spoilers)
1. Chapter 1

This was going to be something else but my brain turned it into a not so happy explanation as a background for why Steve was leading support group meetings instead of missions.

Title comes from Sleeping at Last song 'Six'

* * *

Cup of tepid tea in one hand, Natasha engaged the video feed in a vicious stare down. An orange blurb popped up in the center of the screen, notifying her of the team's return. A moment passed. Jet engines rumbled outside. A single swipe of her hand cleared the air in front of her, videos and notifications vanishing to reveal the empty room around her. She waited.

Laughter drifted up the hallway as the heroes entered the complex. Natasha rolled her chair away from the desk just far enough to give her enough space to move, standing at a leisurely pace before rounding the desk and leaning against it, arms crossed.

"Oh man. Did you see that guy's face?"

"Which guy, Rocket? There were a lot of guys." Rhodey and Rocket were at the front, leading the small group forward.

"You know, the one standing at the gate when Miss I'm Going to Break That Door Down With my Bare Hands showed up."

"I did not use my hands. I kicked it down. There is a difference," Nebula defended herself, speeding her strides until she was equal with the two in front.

"His face though," Rocket snickered. "It was priceless!"

As they came into the room, Natasha nodded to each of them in turn, though her attention was focused on Steve. He lagged behind the others, expression indifferent in spite of the banter. In the blink of an eye, Natasha was off the desk and across the room, stopping directly in front of Steve. Her abrupt movements, coupled with the stormy look on her face, effectively killed the light mood. The others instantly shut their mouths and exchanged nervous glances.

"What the hell was that?" Natasha's quiet voice held the power of a thunderclap.

Sensing the tension and wanting no part of the impending fight, Rhodey and Nebula edged toward the door, dragging the reluctant Rocket with them.

"Ah, come on, guys. Some popcorn and soda and we would have been all set," he complained.

"Trust me, man. You do not want to be anywhere near what's about to go down." Rhodey's advice faded as the group disappeared to another part of the compound.

When even that awkward departure failed to thaw Natasha's glower, Steve rolled his eyes. "Good to see you too, Nat."

"What the hell was that?" Natasha asked again, slower and more forcefully, without any trace of humor.

Steve stepped around her, taking his gear bag off his shoulder and slinging it onto a nearby armchair. "I believe it's called a successful mission."

"And that's called a load of crap," Natasha said, spinning on her heel to face him. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Steve shrugged, impassive.

"That was a pipe bomb in that subway station," Natasha said.

"I know. I saw it." He took a seat on the sofa, propping his boots on the coffee table and dabbing at an already scabbing gash at his temple.

"Oh, really. Is that why you ran straight toward it?" She arched an eyebrow at him challengingly.

Steve sighed as if bored. "It was going to destroy-"

Natasha wouldn't let him finish. "Don't give me that. No." She held up a hand. "Don't give me that crap."

Pulling his feet off the table, Steve stamped them on the floor and leaned forward. "Nat, I had to. If I hadn't done something-"

She interrupted him again. "You could have called in Rhodes. Not only was he closer but his suit's actually designed to deal with that kind of stuff. Or hell, you could have put the raccoon on it. I don't know if you've noticed, but explosives are kind of his specialty."

Steve spread his hands. "I didn't know-"

"Don't bullshit me, Rogers."

He stiffened, face closing off.

"You knew damn well what would happen. You knew and you did it anyway. Why?" Natasha crossed her arms over her chest.

"I was trying to protect people." His tone was borderline hostile. "Last I checked, that's our job, isn't it?"

"And how many people are you going to protect if you're dead, huh?" Natasha shot back. "That's what you were going for, right? That's why you didn't call in Rhodes or try to evacuate the station or a hundred other options besides walking right up to a bomb."

Steve leaped to his feet. "Okay, fine. I made a mistake. There. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?" He stood in front of her, using his height advantage to its full potential as he stared down at her with flashing eyes.

"No. No, it's not." She was unaffected by his intimidating posture. "Because I am getting sick and tired of these 'mistakes'. They keep happening so either you're getting sloppy or you just don't care anymore. I don't know which is worse but I know both of them are dangerous and I won't stand for it."

"What are you going to do about it?" His lip curled in an expression dangerously close to a sneer.

"I'm benching you, Rogers," she asserted cooly.

He scoffed. "Come on, Nat. You're not serious." But when he scanned her face for signs of weakness or hesitation, there were none.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" she said lowly through clenched teeth.

For the first time during their argument, something besides dismissal showed on his face. "You're really think you can bench me?" he asked.

"Damn straight." She held his gaze, keeping her jaw tight and ignoring how her fingers were digging into her arms where she had crossed them.

After a tense moment, he huffed a humorless chuckle and dropped his head to his chest before raising it defiantly. "Why?"

"Because I don't like where your head is at," Natasha told him.

"Just where do you think my head is?" he challenged.

"Not here, that's for damn sure." She dropped her arms to her sides. "And I can't let you go back out there. Not like this. Not when you're putting the others in danger."

Steve raised a critical eyebrow. "And you're going to be the one to protect them."

"Someone has to. And it sure as hell ain't you." Her words stung him, she could see it in the tightening of his eyes and the furrow of his brow. She softened her voice and added, "Not right now."

Steve pursed his lips but said nothing, swallowing down the hurt and any argument he wanted to make.

Natasha deflated, suddenly worn and tired. "Look. I don't care what you have to do to get yourself back in the game. Take a nature walk. Go fishing. Take up knitting. I don't care. But you need to do something, Steve. I'm not going to watch you get yourself killed."

Steve didn't respond, just stood there stiff and unhappy before abruptly snatching his gear bag and walking to the door. Natasha watched him go. He stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder, opening his mouth. Then seemingly changed his mind as he shut it and stalked away without even a goodbye. It was only after she could no longer see his form down the hall that she allowed herself to return to the desk and slump in her chair. Her unfinished cup of tea caught her eye. She snatched it and flung it at the opposite wall, watching the liquid trail stains on the paint.


	2. Chapter 2

Dedicated to _**shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, **_a faithful reviewer and an irreplaceable source of encouragement to me (this is the piece I was telling you about).  
And also for a guest user, who asked for a continuation.

title from Fall Out Boy song 'Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying'

* * *

He knows what she thinks. Gravel crunches under his boots as he walks away without turning back because there's nothing there but the shaky remains of humanity's failed defenses. Despite what everyone thinks, he's not an idiot. He knows what it looks like, what he looks like, how he seems. In the corner of the hangar his bike's still there. Half of the universe disappeared but not the machines they made. He knows what Natasha thinks but she's wrong. He's not suicidal.

He's angry.

The night is pleasant. Warm. Cloud cover that plays peek a boo with a glittering moon crescent. Roar and rumble of his bike under him, carrying him across the miles, over the distance far and away. There's nowhere to go. Not really. Here, there. It's all the same. All hollowed out and picked over, scraps of carrion left out for vultures.

When morning breaks with birdsong and fresh air, he's still riding. He's heading west because why not. Points his bike and lets it take him down the ever flowing ribbon of asphalt while the anger simmers and boils like prehistoric tar in his gut. Still west through America, barely meets any cars on the road. Too much fear, too much grief. Not enough people.

He goes it alone and it's familiar. It's New York after his parents funeral. It's waking up from the ice in a future he never meant to be in. It's ripping the star from his chest and fleeing his own country. It's Wakanda with the stench of death thick in his nostrils. It's achingly familiar in a horrible sort of way. It's like coming home to a place he hates.

Big cities attract like the end of a magnet and he follows the draw, follows it deep into the hearts of the concrete jungles where filth spews and multiplies, an infection setting deep into fresh wounds. Half of humanity but the cut is jagged and frayed along the edge, good evil innocent bad no difference.

A miserable drizzle crawls over his leather jacket, sinks down into his collar where the fabric meets skin. He's slouched against brick, the neon from the bodega's windows not quite reaching him here in the shadows. He's waiting, he supposes. Could be waiting. Could be just existing in this world no one saw coming. He slouches, waits, and takes a pull from the bottle in his hand.

Definitely waiting because now the waiting is over. Two men with empty backpacks they're looking to fill. In the aftermath of any disaster there're those who twist the wreckage to their demented advantage. The two don't even have masks, arrogant and brash. He sets down his bottle and rolls his shoulders, the tar pit belching great bubbles that bloom pop stick in his rib cage.

It's not his style but he toys with them. Gives them a chance, many chances, so very many opportunities to hurt him before he hurts them oh so much worse. The shop owner is too scared to offer thanks and he couldn't accept anyway. He picks up his bottle as he leaves, rain trickling over bruised knuckles. It's not far to the site of the next crime. Drains the bottle before he goes, picks them off slowly, easily, all the while that anger burns and burns and burns.

Motel after motel after knife wound and apathy. Like the alcohol, this petty vigilantism doesn't affect him. Can't cool the never ending ever present always there can't forget anger. It's not what it looks like. He's not trying to die. But he doesn't think he would complain too much if it happened anyway.

They're in the headlines. Doing good. Finding ways to somehow do good in the middle of all the terrible. Through Tennessee and on to Texas up to Arizona. They're in the headlines and he sees them on newspapers and tv screens. North Dakota and Michigan after. He sees them and misses-

In a subway car of all places. An old woman recognizes him. Their eyes meet on a subway car. Stations passing outside the window. Her wrinkles and her wispy hair and her failing strength. Next stop in three miles. And he feels the weight of it, her anger anger anger.

Highways and freeways and interstates all blur together, losing flavor like Wrigley's gum chewed too long on a summer afternoon. There's one thing that stays the same though. People. Grief, shock. People. Loss, heartbreak. People, people, people. So many still even now left behind. Broken, shattered, lost people.

At a gas station in Philadelphia, almost the closest he comes to upstate New York these days, a young woman, barely out of her teens. She's at the pump behind his, counting coins and fumbling with numb fingers. Her purse lands in a puddle of dirty slush and he retrieves it for her. Hands it back and startles at the hollowness of her expression, the clumps old mascara have knotted in her eyelashes. Frown lines and worry lines, too many for a face so young.

The coffee is horrible. Looks like a cup of pond water and tastes just as appealing. But it's scalding hot, enough to beat the dead of winter back a little. He buys her one too and invites her to the sticky booth in front of the prepackaged sandwiches. They're not there more than an hour. She talks. He listens. The baby carrier rocks gently on the table beside her as she recounts a tragedy and the struggle for continued life in the face of it. He hands over his jacket and she gratefully spreads it over the baby as a blanket, something inside of him shifting, settling, right. It's not until he's two states over that she will discover the money he planted in the right hand pocket.

After, he sort of gives up on anger. It burns too damn hot for that kind of sustainability. But there's still that awful pit, even if it's not full of tar anymore. Resignation maybe. If he was the sort of person who could. But he's not. He's Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, NY. He doesn't know how to give up. Can't be grief - he hasn't cried in nearly eighty years. Can't be acceptance - that would be disrespectful to all those gone. But maybe. Waste not, want not. He's got this burning something and just maybe he can turn that into something useful.

Time slips, passes, runs full circle. So does he, sometimes. But most days he manages. He focuses and reminds and reaches past the layers of pain to grab a fistful of his core and drag it up and out into the sun. A prepaid bus ticket here. Buying a meal there. Clearing rubble and rebuilding. It gets easier. Feels like slotting jarred pieces back into place.

They're on his mind. His mind is blank. Too many thoughts. Leaking out his fingers onto paper, bleeds away in ink. They're on his mind. He can't go back. Not yet. Still drifting, still haunted by a deep black pit of not quite anger. Soon, maybe.

It starts with parking the bike. Signature on apartment lease. Routine and regulation and same faces. This is how he anchors his mind, his rib cage, his tongue. Digs a hole of coffee shop same faces local park same faces library same faces. The solid press of humanity weighs on him.

He doesn't believe it. Not what he's preaching. But it helps. Helps them and that's what helps him. He's not ready to live like this is the start. Of a new era, new world, new universe. But this-these meetings and talks and mentoring sponsoring praying-this is something he can do.


End file.
